{"id":18512,"date":"2025-01-14T09:08:55","date_gmt":"2025-01-14T13:08:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=18512"},"modified":"2025-01-14T09:08:57","modified_gmt":"2025-01-14T13:08:57","slug":"jack-london-the-mexican","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/jack-london-the-mexican\/18512\/","title":{"rendered":"Jack London: The Mexican"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n\n

The Mexican, a short story by Jack London, published on August 19, 1911, in The Saturday Evening Post<\/em>, narrates the arrival of Felipe Rivera to a revolutionary cell fighting against the dictatorship of Porfirio D\u00edaz in Mexico. At first, Rivera, an enigmatic, reserved young man with an implacable look, generates distrust among the veterans, who relegate him to the most humble and degrading tasks. However, his unwavering dedication to the cause soon becomes evident. Rivera, marked by a mysterious past, seems willing to sacrifice to contribute to the revolutionary dream.<\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n\n

\n
\n
\"Jack<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Mexican<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Jack London
(Cuento completo)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

NOBODY knew his history–they of the Junta least of all. He was their \u201clittle mystery,\u201d their \u201cbig patriot,\u201d and in his way he worked as hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being a spy–one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was, not more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced that he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the Revolution. That was all–not a wasted word, no further explanation. He stood waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes. Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and snakelike in the boy\u2019s black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with a vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was industriously operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant–she had chanced to look up–and she, too, sensed the nameless something that made her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the swing of the letter she was writing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of doubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested with all the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something quite beyond the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and ordinary patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. But Vera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the breach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery well,\u201d he said coldly. \u201cYou say you want to work for the Revolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you, come–where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will begin by scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms. The spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs it for the Revolution?\u201d the boy asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is for the Revolution,\u201d Vera answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take off his coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is well,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work–sweeping, scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought up the coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energetic one of them was at his desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ah, ha! So that was it–the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep in the rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists of names, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The request was denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew not where, and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered him a couple of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head. When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am working for the Revolution.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It takes money to raise a modern revolution. and always the Junta was pressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was none too long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolution stood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, the first time, when the rent of the house was two months behind and the landlord was threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, the scrub-boy in the poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laid sixty dollars in gold on May Sethby\u2019s desk. There were other times. Three hundred letters, clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals for assistance, for sanctions from the organized labor groups, requests for square news deals to the editors of newspapers, protests against the high-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts), lay unmailed, awaiting postage. Vera\u2019s watch had disappeared–the old-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father\u2019s. Likewise had gone the plain gold band from May Setbby\u2019s third finger. Things were desperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair. The letters must go off, and the Post Office allowed no credit to purchasers of stamps. Then it was that Rivera put on his hat and went out. When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on May Sethby\u2019s desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?\u201d said Vera to the comrades.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, the scrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay down gold and silver for the Junta\u2019s use.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not know him. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled all probing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare to question him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know,\u201d Arrellano said helplessly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe is not human,\u201d said Ramos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHis soul has been seared,\u201d said May Sethby. \u201cLight and laughter have been burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfully alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe has been through hell,\u201d said Vera. \u201cNo man could look like that who has not been through hell–and he is only a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, never suggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, save for his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ran high and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyes would turn, boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting and perturbing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe is no spy,\u201d Vera confided to May Sethby. \u201cHe is a patriot–mark me, the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heart and head I feel it. But him I know not at all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe has a bad temper,\u201d said May Sethby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know,\u201d said Vera, with a shudder. \u201cHe has looked at me with those eyes of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wild tiger\u2019s. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that he would kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and cold as frost. He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes to death on some lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all his killers; but this boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid. He is the breath of death.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trust to Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and Lower California had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their own graves and been shot into them. Two more were United States prisoners in Los Angeles. Juan Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. All their plans did he checkmate. They could no longer gain access to the active revolutionists, and the incipient ones, in Lower California.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When he returned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvarado was dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast. This had exceeded Rivera\u2019s instructions, but they of the Junta knew the times of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But they looked at one another and conjectured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have told you,\u201d said Vera. \u201cDiaz has more to fear from this youth than from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all, was evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip, a blackened cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled, somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept, gained money, and moved in ways unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come to set type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. There were occasions when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles were bruised and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, when one arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawn with unspoken pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA wastrel,\u201d said Arrellano.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA frequenter of low places,\u201d said Ramos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut where does he get the money?\u201d Vera demanded. \u201cOnly to-day, just now, have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper–one hundred and forty dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere are his absences,\u201d said May Sethby. \u201cHe never explains them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe should set a spy upon him,\u201d Ramos propounded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI should not care to be that spy,\u201d said Vera. \u201cI fear you would never see me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even God would he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI feel like a child before him,\u201d Ramos confessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo me he is power–he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the striking rattlesnake, the stinging centipede,\u201d said Arrellano.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe is the Revolution incarnate,\u201d said Vera. \u201cHe is the flame and the spirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry but that slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through the still watches of the night.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI could weep over him,\u201d said May Sethby. \u201cHe knows nobody. He hates all people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He is alone. . . . lonely.\u201d Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimness in her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera\u2019s ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods when they did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month. These occasions were always capped by his return, when, without advertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby\u2019s desk. Again, for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again, for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day, from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early and remained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type with fresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that still bled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

II<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution would be depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The need for money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get. Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Section gang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico–were contributing half their scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking, conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The time was ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one last heroic effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. They knew their Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care of itself. The whole Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. The border was ready to rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waited the word to cross over the border and begin the conquest of Lower California. But he needed guns. And clear across to the Atlantic, the Junta in touch with them all and all of them needing guns, mere adventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, disgruntled American union men, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, Mexican exiles, peons escaped from bondage, whipped miners from the bull-pens of Coeur d\u2019Alene and Colorado who desired only the more vindictively to fight–all the flotsam and jetsam of wild spirits from the madly complicated modern world. And it was guns and ammunition, ammunition and guns–the unceasing and eternal cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, and the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports of entry, would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throw the weight of his armies against them, for he must hold the south. And through the south the flame would spread despite. The people would rise. The defenses of city after city would crumple up. State after state would totter down. And at last, from every side, the victorious armies of the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz\u2019s last stronghold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the guns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But to culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollar had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns and ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamented his confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his youth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of the Junta been more economical in the past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a few paltry thousands of dollars,\u201d said Paulino Vera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill five thousand do it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOrder the guns,\u201d Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest flow of words they had ever heard him utter. \u201cThe time is short. In three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather will be warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not believe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou are crazy,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn three weeks,\u201d said Rivera. \u201cOrder the guns.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOrder the guns,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am going now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

III<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night session was held in Kelly\u2019s office. Kelly was rushed with business; also, he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three weeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to take his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And now hope had revived, though faintly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got a hell of a nerve,\u201d Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, as soon as they got together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hate that was malignant was in Rivera\u2019s eyes, but his face remained impassive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can lick Ward,\u201d was all he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you know? Ever see him fight?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera shrugged his shoulders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHaven\u2019t you got anything to say?\u201d the fight promoter snarled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can lick him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho\u2019d you ever fight, anyway!\u201d Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the promotor\u2019s brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made goodly sums on the fight game.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The promoter\u2019s secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered audibly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, you know Roberts,\u201d Kelly broke the hostile silence. \u201cHe ought to be here. I\u2019ve sent for him. Sit down and wait, though from the looks of you, you haven\u2019t got a chance. I can\u2019t throw the public down with a bum fight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a smooth and languid drawl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kelly went straight to the point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook here, Roberts, you\u2019ve been bragging you discovered this little Mexican. You know Carthey\u2019s broke his arm. Well, this little yellow streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he\u2019ll take Carthey\u2019s place. What about it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s all right, Kelly,\u201d came the slow response. \u201cHe can put up a fight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI suppose you\u2019ll be sayin\u2019 next that he can lick Ward,\u201d Kelly snapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Roberts considered judicially.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, I won\u2019t say that. Ward\u2019s a top-notcher and a ring general. But he can\u2019t hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get his goat. He ain\u2019t got a goat that I could ever discover. And he\u2019s a two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You\u2019ve been conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe sure can, and he\u2019ll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. You don\u2019t know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain\u2019t got a goat. He\u2019s a devil. He\u2019s a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He\u2019ll make Ward sit up with a show of local talent that\u2019ll make the rest of you sit up. I won\u2019t say he\u2019ll lick Ward, but he\u2019ll put up such a show that you\u2019ll all know he\u2019s a comer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right.\u201d Kelly turned to his secretary. \u201cRing up Ward. I warned him to show up if I thought it worth while. He\u2019s right across at the Yellowstone, throwin\u2019 chests and doing the popular.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kelly turned back to the conditioner. \u201cHave a drink?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple of years ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne ready for his fight with Delaney. Prayne\u2019s wicked. He ain\u2019t got a tickle of mercy in his make-up. I chopped up his pardner\u2019s something cruel, and I couldn\u2019t find a willing boy that\u2019d work with him. I\u2019d noticed this little starved Mexican kid hanging around, and I was desperate. So I grabbed him, shoved on the gloves and put him in. He was tougher\u2019n rawhide, but weak. And he didn\u2019t know the first letter in the alphabet of boxing. Prayne chopped him to ribbons. But he hung on for two sickening rounds, when he fainted. Starvation, that was all. Battered! You couldn\u2019t have recognized him. I gave him half a dollar and a square meal. You oughta seen him wolf it down. He hadn\u2019t had the end of a bite for a couple of days. That\u2019s the end of him, thinks I. But next day he showed up, stiff an\u2019 sore, ready for another half and a square meal. And he done better as time went by. Just a born fighter, and tough beyond belief. He hasn\u2019t a heart. He\u2019s a piece of ice. And he never talked eleven words in a string since I know him. He saws wood and does his work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve seen \u2018m,\u201d the secretary said. \u201cHe\u2019s worked a lot for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll the big little fellows has tried out on him,\u201d Roberts answered. \u201cAnd he\u2019s learned from \u2018em. I\u2019ve seen some of them he could lick. But his heart wasn\u2019t in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed to act that way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months,\u201d Kelly said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure. But I don\u2019t know what struck \u2018m. All of a sudden his heart got into it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the little local fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he\u2019s won a bit, though his clothes don\u2019t look it. He\u2019s peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobody knows how he spends his time. Even when he\u2019s on the job, he plumb up and disappears most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he just blows away for weeks at a time. But he don\u2019t take advice. There\u2019s a fortune in it for the fellow that gets the job of managin\u2019 him, only he won\u2019t consider it. And you watch him hold out for the cash money when you get down to terms.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was. His manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gusty draught of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetings flew about, a joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh for everybody. Yet it was his way, and only partly sincere. He was a good actor, and he had found geniality a most valuable asset in the game of getting on in the world. But down underneath he was the deliberate, cold-blooded fighter and business man. The rest was a mask. Those who knew him or trafficked with him said that when it came to brass tacks he was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was invariably present at all business discussions, and it was urged by some that his manager was a blind whose only function was to serve as Danny\u2019s mouth-piece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera\u2019s way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was in his veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his black eyes passing from face to face and noting everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s the guy,\u201d Danny said, running an appraising eye over his proposed antagonist. \u201cHow de do, old chap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera\u2019s eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment. He disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy that was unusual even in him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGawd!\u201d Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. \u201cYou ain\u2019t expectin\u2019 me to fight a deef mute.\u201d When the laughter subsided, he made another hit. \u201cLos Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best you can scare up. What kindergarten did you get \u2018m from?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a good little boy, Danny, take it from me,\u201d Roberts defended. \u201cNot as easy as he looks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd half the house is sold already,\u201d Kelly pleaded. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to take \u2018m on, Danny. It is the best we can do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera and sighed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI gotta be easy with \u2018m, I guess. If only he don\u2019t blow up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Roberts snorted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou gotta be careful,\u201d Danny\u2019s manager warned. \u201cNo taking chances with a dub that\u2019s likely to sneak a lucky one across.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, I\u2019ll be careful all right, all right,\u201d Danny smiled. \u201cI\u2019ll get in at the start an\u2019 nurse \u2018im along for the dear public\u2019s sake. What d\u2019 ye say to fifteen rounds, Kelly–an\u2019 then the hay for him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019ll do,\u201d was the answer. \u201cAs long as you make it realistic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen let\u2019s get down to biz.\u201d Danny paused and calculated. \u201cOf course, sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. But the split\u2019ll be different. Eighty will just about suit me.\u201d And to his manager, \u201cThat right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The manager nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere, you, did you get that?\u201d Kelly asked Rivera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, it is this way,\u201d Kelly exposited. \u201cThe purse\u2019ll be sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts. You\u2019re a dub, and an unknown. You and Danny split, twenty per cent goin\u2019 to you, an\u2019 eighty to Danny. That\u2019s fair, isn\u2019t it, Roberts?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery fair, Rivera,\u201d Roberts agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou see, you ain\u2019t got a reputation yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?\u201d Rivera demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand,\u201d Danny broke in to explain. \u201cSomething like that. Your share\u2019ll come to something like a thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin\u2019 a licking from a guy with my reputation. What d\u2019 ye say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Rivera took their breaths away. \u201cWinner takes all,\u201d he said with finality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A dead silence prevailed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s like candy from a baby,\u201d Danny\u2019s manager proclaimed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been in the game too long,\u201d he explained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company. I\u2019m not sayin\u2019 nothing about book-makers an\u2019 frame-ups that sometimes happen. But what I do say is that it\u2019s poor business for a fighter like me. I play safe. There\u2019s no tellin\u2019. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or some guy slips me a bunch of dope?\u201d He shook his head solemnly. \u201cWin or lose, eighty is my split. What d\u2019 ye say, Mexican?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, you dirty little greaser! I\u2019ve a mind to knock your block off right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWinner takes all,\u201d Rivera repeated sullenly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy do you stand out that way?\u201d Danny asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can lick you,\u201d was the straight answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, it was a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowed himself to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him. Rivera stood alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook here, you little fool,\u201d Kelly took up the argument. \u201cYou\u2019re nobody. We know what you ve been doing the last few months–putting away little local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after this will be for the championship. And you\u2019re unknown. Nobody ever heard of you out of Los Angeles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey will,\u201d Rivera answered with a shrug, \u201cafter this fight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou think for a second you can lick me?\u201d Danny blurted in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, come; listen to reason,\u201d Kelly pleaded. \u201cThink of the advertising.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want the money,\u201d was Rivera\u2019s answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou couldn\u2019t win from me in a thousand years,\u201d Danny assured him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen what are you holdin\u2019 out for?\u201d Rivera countered. \u201cIf the money\u2019s that easy, why don\u2019t you go after it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will, so help me!\u201d Danny cried with abrupt conviction. \u201cI\u2019Il beat you to death in the ring, my boy–you monkeyin\u2019 with me this way. Make out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin\u2019 columns. Tell \u2019em it\u2019s a grudge fight. I\u2019ll show this fresh kid a few.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kelly\u2019s secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHold on!\u201d He turned to Rivera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWeights?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRingside,\u201d came the answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten A.M.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd winner takes all?\u201d Rivera queried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full ripeness of strength.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWeigh in at ten,\u201d Rivera said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The secretary\u2019s pen went on scratching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt means five pounds,\u201d Roberts complained to Rivera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve given too much away. You\u2019ve thrown the fight right there. Danny\u2019ll lick you sure. He\u2019ll be as strong as a bull. You\u2019re a fool. You ain\u2019t got the chance of a dewdrop in hell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera\u2019s answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

IV<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and here it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, to one on Danny. And where a betting audience\u2019s money is, there is its heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes lagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it worked on the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus and facing their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking audience. But for once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had no goat. He, who was more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and strung than any of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of foredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers were Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs–the dirty driftage of the fight game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were chilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow you gotta be careful,\u201d Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his chief second. \u201cMake it last as long as you can–them\u2019s my instructions from Kelly. If you don\u2019t, the papers\u2019ll call it another bum fight and give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despised prize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had taken up with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters, solely because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously made for it had meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to the Junta, had he fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Not first among the sons of men had he been to find himself successful at a despised vocation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. There could be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief, were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Ward fought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring. But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain–blazing and terrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in the corner of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw as clearly as he had lived them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw the six thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, seven and eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day. He saw the perambulating corpses, the ghastly death\u2019s heads of men who labored in the dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his father call the dye-rooms the \u201csuicide-holes,\u201d where a year was death. He saw the little patio, and his mother cooking and moiling at crude housekeeping and finding time to caress and love him. And his father he saw, large, big-moustached and deep-chested, kindly above all men, who loved all men and whose heart was so large that there was love to overflowing still left for the mother and the little muchacho playing in the corner of the patio. In those days his name had not been Felipe Rivera. It had been Fernandez, his father\u2019s and mother\u2019s name. Him had they called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, for he had found the name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes politicos, and rurales.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera\u2019s visions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he could understand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, or scribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. And he could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the dark like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long hours where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: \u201cNo layin\u2019 down at the start. Them\u2019s instructions. Take a beatin\u2019 and earn your dough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his comer. There were no signs of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera\u2019s memory. The strike, or, rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helped their striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in the hills for berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted and pained the stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the waste of ground before the company\u2019s store; the thousands of starving workers; General Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and the death-spitting rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while the workers\u2019 wrongs were washed and washed again in their own blood. And that night! He saw the flat cars, piled high with the bodies of the slain, consigned to Vera Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Again he crawled over the grisly heaps, seeking and finding, stripped and mangled, his father and his mother. His mother he especially remembered–only her face projecting, her body burdened by the weight of dozens of bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz cracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like some hunted coyote of the hills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward, leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center aisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound to win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera\u2019s own seconds warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked jauntily through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually spread to an unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he smiled in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of the eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so genial a fighter. His face was a running advertisement of good feeling, of good fellowship. He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and greeted his friends through the ropes. Those farther away, unable to suppress their admiration, cried loudly: \u201cOh, you Danny!\u201d It was a joyous ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not exist. Spider Lagerty\u2019s bloated face bent down close to his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo gettin\u2019 scared,\u201d the Spider warned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn\u2019 remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin\u2019 down. If you lay down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve? You just gotta fight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny bent over, caught Rivera\u2019s right hand in both his own and shook it with impulsive heartiness. Danny\u2019s smile-wreathed face was close to his. The audience yelled its appreciation of Danny\u2019s display of sporting spirit. He was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny\u2019s lips moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be those of a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou little Mexican rat,\u201d hissed from between Danny\u2019s gaily smiling lips, \u201cI\u2019ll fetch the yellow outa you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet up, you dog!\u201d some man yelled through the ropes from behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct, but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny\u2019s as he walked back across the ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body was perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin was white as a woman\u2019s, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience, and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His photographs were in all the physical culture magazines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera\u2019s sweater over his head. His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had muscles, but they made no display like his opponent\u2019s. What the audience neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions of the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of him into a spendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a brown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With Danny it was different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body was a man\u2019s body. The contrast was still more striking as they stood together in the center of the ring receiving the referee\u2019s last instructions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake it easy, Rivera,\u201d Roberts drawled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe can\u2019t kill you, remember that. He\u2019ll rush you at the go-off, but don\u2019t get rattled. You just cover up, and stall, and clinch. He can\u2019t hurt you much. Just make believe to yourself that he\u2019s choppin\u2019 out on you at the trainin\u2019 quarters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera made no sign that he had heard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSullen little devil,\u201d Roberts muttered to the man next to him. \u201cHe always was that way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to the high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the ragged bands that delayed only for the guns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was on. The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open more convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight. Three-quarters of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get together, his intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He assailed with not one blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscope of blows, a whirlwind of destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He was overwhelmed, buried beneath avalanches of punches delivered from every angle and position by a past master in the art. He was overborne, swept back against the ropes, separated by the referee, and swept back against the ropes again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, save a prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that first minute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do–a splendid exhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as its excitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that the Mexican still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him, so closely was he enveloped in Danny\u2019s man-eating attack. A minute of this went by, and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clear glimpse of the Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As he turned and staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from his contacts with the ropes, showed in red bars. across his back. But what the audience did not notice was that his chest was not heaving and that his eyes were coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, in the cruel welter of the training camps, had practiced this man-eating attack on him. He had learned to live through for a compensation of from half a dollar a go up to fifteen dollars a week–a hard school, and he was schooled hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceased suddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on his back. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He had not staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumping fall. The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with the abruptness of death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, and stood over the fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the custom of prize-fighting audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But this audience did not cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watched the toll of the seconds in tense silence, and through this silence the voice of Roberts rose exultantly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you he was a two-handed fighter!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when seven was counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count of nine and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floor at \u201cten,\u201d he was considered \u201cdown,\u201d and also \u201cout.\u201d The instant his knee left the floor, he was considered \u201cup,\u201d and in that instant it was Rivera\u2019s right to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances. The moment that knee left the floor he would strike again. He circled around, but the referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that the seconds he counted were very slow. All Gringos were against him, even the referee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At \u201cnine\u201d the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair, but it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partly over, with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbled into a clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should have broken it, but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-battered barnacle and moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the round was going fast. If he could live to the end, he would have a full minute in his corner to revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through all desperateness and extremity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe smile that won\u2019t come off!\u201d somebody yelled, and the audience laughed loudly in its relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe kick that Greaser\u2019s got is something God-awful,\u201d Danny gasped in his corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically over him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummate ring general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself to recovering from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he was himself again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition had enabled him to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics. The Mexican had proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his best fighting powers. In tricks and skill and experience he was the master, and though he could land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically to chop and wear down his opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera\u2019s one, but they were punishing blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum of many of them that constituted deadliness. He was respectful of this two-handed dub with the amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In defense, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Again and again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him with accumulated damage to Danny\u2019s mouth and nose. But Danny was protean. That was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style to style of fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. In this he was particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other\u2019s straight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it with a marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised the Mexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on one knee, making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew the referee was counting short seconds on him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut. He succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment of defenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through the ropes. Rivera\u2019s body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below, and they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes. Here he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds. Inside the ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Danny waited for him. Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The house was beside itself with delight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKill\u2019m, Danny, kill\u2019m!\u201d was the cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine, came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now the referee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Danny every advantage that an unfair referee can give.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of a piece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in the worst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain–long lines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales and American constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks–all the squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and the strike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolution sweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hated face was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He was the Revolution. He fought for all Mexico.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn\u2019t he take the licking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, but why should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him, and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd that plays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless they had put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. More than a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last. Wild money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could not last seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cash risk was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponent strove vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned the house again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick, lithe movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his right lifted from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety of the count. The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game. His famous right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera made no attempt to catch him as he arose at \u201cnine.\u201d The referee was openly blocking that play, though he stood clear when the situation was reversed and it was Rivera who desired to rise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted from waist to opponent\u2019s chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left his face, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would, be could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl, dropped him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did not recuperate so quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a serious way. But from then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibition of his career. He stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and strove to gather strength. Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighter knows how. Every trick and device he employed, butting in the clinches with the seeming of accident, pinioning Rivera\u2019s glove between arm and body, heeling his glove on Rivera\u2019s mouth to clog his breathing. Often, in the clinches, through his cut and smiling lips he snarled insults unspeakable and vile in Rivera\u2019s ear. Everybody, from the referee to the house, was with Danny and was helping Danny. And they knew what he had in mind. Bested by this surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinning all on a single punch. He offered himself for punishment, fished, and feinted, and drew, for that one opening that would enable him to whip a blow through with all his strength and turn the tide. As another and greater fighter had done before him, he might do a right and left, to solar plexus and across the jaw. He could do it, for he was noted for the strength of punch that remained in his arms as long as he could keep his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera\u2019s seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals between rounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into his panting lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew it was wrong advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by treachery. In the fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself stood resting, hands dropped at side, while the referee counted. In the other corner Rivera had been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw Michael Kelly make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera\u2019s ears were a cat\u2019s, desert-trained, and he caught snatches of what was said. He wanted to hear more, and when his opponent arose he maneuvered the fight into a clinch over against the ropes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGot to,\u201d he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. \u201cDanny\u2019s got to win–I stand to lose a mint–I\u2019ve got a ton of money covered–my own. If he lasts the fifteenth I\u2019m bust–the boy\u2019ll mind you. Put something across.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him. Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide. Roberts stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat settled him,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo to your corner.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at the training quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Danny to rise. Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter, came and talked to Rivera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThrow it, damn you,\u201d he rasped in, a harsh low voice. \u201cYou gotta lay down, Rivera. Stick with me and I\u2019ll make your future. I\u2019ll let you lick Danny next time. But here\u2019s where you lay down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign of assent nor dissent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t you speak?\u201d Kelly demanded angrily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou lose, anyway,\u201d Spider Hagerty supplemented. \u201cThe referee\u2019ll take it away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLay down, kid,\u201d Kelly pleaded, \u201cand I\u2019ll help you to the championship.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rivera did not answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will, so help me, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house did not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and very close. Danny\u2019s earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence of his advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Danny rushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away into safety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessary to the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner or later, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolved to draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny\u2019s next rush. Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have come together, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny\u2019s corner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee paused irresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered, for a shrill, boy\u2019s voice from the gallery piped, \u201cRaw work!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away. Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. In this he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was to win at all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given the least opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all caution to the winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who dared not meet him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again; he took blows by the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During this supreme final rally of Danny\u2019s the audience rose to its feet and went mad. It did not understand. All it could see was that its favorite was winning, after all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t you fight?\u201d it demanded wrathfully of Rivera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re yellow! You\u2019re yellow!\u201d \u201cOpen up, you cur! Open up!\u201d \u201cKill\u2019m, Danny! Kill \u2018m!\u201d \u201cYou sure got \u2018m! Kill \u2018m!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperament and blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone through such vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousand throats, rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvet cool of a summer twilight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under a heavy blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as he reeled backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, his mercy. Thus Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out a clean drive to the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felled him with a down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times he repeated this. It was impossible for any referee to call these blows foul.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, Bill! Bill!\u201d Kelly pleaded to the referee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d that official lamented back. \u201cHe won\u2019t give me a chance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others near to the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny\u2019s corner refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captain starting awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what it meant. There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos. Danny, on his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. The referee and the captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck the last blow. There was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCount!\u201d Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And when the count was finished, Danny\u2019s seconds gathered him up and carried him to his corner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho wins?\u201d Rivera demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his corner unattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leaned backward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on and about him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His knees trembled under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyes the hated faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Then he remembered they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolution could go on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Mexican, a short story by Jack London, published on August 19, 1911, in The Saturday Evening Post, narrates the arrival of Felipe Rivera to a revolutionary cell fighting against the dictatorship of Porfirio D\u00edaz in Mexico. At first, Rivera, an enigmatic, reserved young man with an implacable look, generates distrust among the veterans, who relegate him to the most humble and degrading tasks. However, his unwavering dedication to the cause soon becomes evident. Rivera, marked by a mysterious past, seems willing to sacrifice to contribute to the revolutionary dream.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":18473,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[600,630,570],"class_list":["post-18512","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-jack-london-en","tag-realism","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":600,"label":"Jack London"},{"value":630,"label":"Realism"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/01\/Jack-London-El-mexicano.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":420,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":420,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":600,"name":"Jack London","slug":"jack-london-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":600,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":11,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":630,"name":"Realism","slug":"realism","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":630,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":52,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18512","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18512"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18512\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18473"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18512"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18512"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18512"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}